And Now For Something Completely Different
by Silvia Kundera
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up a girl. (Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione)


Title: **And Now For Something Completely Different ****  
**Author: Silvia Kundera  
Disclaimer: This story's author does not claim to own any of the characters, concepts, or ideas originating in J. K. Rowlings' Harry Potter novels. No copyright infringement intended. No harm intended. Material is offered to the public free of charge--not for profit. This piece of fiction is the sole property of the author and cannot be copied, sent, or reproduced without permission of the author.  
Rating: PG-13, mild slash  
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione  
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up as a girl.  
  
Author's Note: If you can't handle your slash with some het or your het with some slash... this story is not for you.   
On the other hand, if you're a R/Hr and H/D shipper like myself -- this story was made _especially_ for you and I hope you enjoy. *g*  
--------------------------------

  


When Harry Potter woke up a girl, he promptly went back to bed.

"You're a _girl_," Ron said, and Harry said that yes, he was quite aware of that, and they slept in for two more hours because it was Saturday and last night had been Quidditch practice until some truly obscene time, of which he wasn't really sure.

"You're still a girl, Harry," Ron said when they had woken up again and were brushing their teeth.

Harry looked into the mirror, squinted, and then fished his glasses out from under his pajamas.

"Better heard over to see Madam Pomfrey before lunch," Harry said, and shrugged.

* * *

Hermoine met them in the hall with grave words about McGonagall's rumored Monday morning exam, and dropped half her books when she brought herself to look up from them. "Harry! You're--"

"We _know_," Ron said, "Come on."

"I think I've read about this before, in--"

"Of course you have."

Hermonine continued, undaunted. "1732, I believe. Alfred The Not So Lonely."

"Not So Lonely?"

"Well, he mainly kept to himself -- his investigations into the translucent transfiguration were revolutionary -- but then he had that second head."

Ron perked up. "Did both of the heads turn into girls, or just one?"

She frowned. "You know, I don't remember."

"I'm shocked at you, Hermoine, utterly shocked."

"Hello, girl here? Can we get a move on?" Harry said, hands on his hips, which were very pretty, actually -- slender but soft and rounded.

"Right, sorry," Ron said, and they marched quickly down the walkway, with Harry taking the lead, hair swishing back and forth over his shoulders.

* * *

Three to four months," Madame Pomfrey proclaimed, turning decisively towards the first year with green and orange poca-dotted arms.

"Three to four _months_?" Ron said, aghast. "But he's a _girl_."

"I'm well aware of that fact, Mr. Weasley," she called back over her shoulder, and the first year's spots faded into a much more manageable tan.

Hermoine tossed a curtain of hair over her right shoulder and sighed. "It's a _transfiguration_. You don't _do_ anything about them, they simply wear off."

"Harry," Ron appealed, hands spread wide and panicked in the air.

Harry, who had a very pretty nose and even prettier dark eyelashes, was picking at the ends of his robes. He looked up and blinked. "I'll need a dress."

* * *

Harry purchased **three** dresses, a pair of stockings, and a package of women's undergarments (size small), although he never wore them, and kept using the same cologne he'd been given by Sirius on his last birthday -- despite the fact that it smelled distinctly like aftershave. ("And you don't even _shave_ yet," Hermoine said.)

He did, however, allow Parvati to tap her wand against his eyebrows a few times and declared them fixed.

"They weren't _broken_," he'd tried, but Parvati had been a sixteen year old girl much longer than he had, and considered herself very much the expert on the subject.

"They're not _now_," she replied, and that had been that, and Hermoine liked them, anyway, and quieted down a bit about how he should and should not smell.

"Don't you think he looks very nice?" Hermoine said, nudging Ron.

"No," Ron replied, and scowled. "I do **not** think Harry looks very nice. I think Harry looks like a _girl_. And why do you keep saying, 'him'? That's not exactly fooling anybody."

Hermoine rolled her eyes. "Well, you know, he's not _actually_ a girl. He just looks like one."

Ron's eyes widened to the size of Christmas dinner saucers, and flickered over the front of Harry's robes. "You mean?"

"No!" Harry yelped, face flushed.

"No, he's--" Hermoine's face joined Harry's in mottled red, and she swallowed loudly. "He's all one. um. He's all very much one. thing." She coughed. "But his _essence_ hasn't changed, you see. What he is _really_. Like, say, if you used polyjuice to disguise yourself as Harry -- you'd still be you."

"Oh," Ron said.

"For example," Hermoine continued, "I read this fascinating memoir last summer by a wizard who spent three years disguised through polyjuice potion and recorded his--"

"All right," Draco said, "That's great. Terrific, even. How about some lunch?"

They blinked and Draco smiled, offering a hand to Harry. "Draco Malfoy. Are you visiting for the term? My father says that is an _excellent_ idea, and I have plans to tour schools in Scotland over the winter holiday.

"Not fooling _anybody_?" Hermoine whispered into Ron's ear, and Ron made a choked cry that closely resembled that of a delirious, mutilated seagull.

* * *

"He's talking to _Malfoy_," Ron hissed, glaring across the table.

Hermione kicked him with the sharp toe of her shoe, and narrowed her eyes at his.

"What?" he said loudly, "You _said_ we should call him _him_, because of that whole essence deal, or don't you _remember_ all of that."

"Well, I've changed my mind," she said.

"You've changed your mind."

"I've changed my mind," said Hermione, and nodded firmly.

Ron frowned. "All right, then."

Harry slid in beside them. "I told Draco that I'm not a girl."

Draco, who was lingering at his left shoulder, fearful of touching the Gryffindor table and contracting some sort of poverty, most likely, smiled tightly.

"You had to _tell_ him?" Ron replied snidely.

"I had to tell him that I'm _him_ him, but not a _him_ him--" Harry blinked. "and that didn't make any sense, did it?"

"It made sense when you told me," Draco supplied helpfully. "It's _Weasley_. I find just sharing the same _room_ with him will begin decreasing brain cells."

Ron's teeth clacked together, jaw popping. "I--"

"Does it have something to do with you being poor?" Draco inquired. "Because I find that most things do when your mouth is open and sound is coming out, and we are already very much informed, I assure you."

Ron's throat gurgled.

Draco hummed lightly, and asked Harry if he might feel like a stroll down the west corridor.

* * *

"We're calling Harry 'him' again," Hermione said, as soon as Ron's knuckles loosened and color began returning to his face.

"We _are_?"

"We are." Hermione nodded solemnly.

* * *

"Harry," Ron said a week later, between bites of sausage and morning biscuit, "is ignoring us."

Hermione would have sighed with exasperation, except she was drinking at the moment. "He's _not_."

"He _is_. He's ignoring us for _Malfoy_, and Harry's letting him bad mouth us, and really, didn't Harry tell him to take a hike in the first place, because he was being a git about me?"

Hermione opened her mouth very wide, like she always did when she was about to saying something that was completely obvious to everyone who was Hermione. (And that wasn't very many people, so she received a lot of practice at it.) "It's those eyes he makes."

"And Harry didn't notice these eyes before?" Ron said, slightly disconcerted about the idea of someone _making_ eyes. He liked to think of eyes as a preexisting trait.

"Draco didn't make those eyes _before_," she explained patiently.

"He didn't?"

"He makes them for _girls_."

"But, and I hope you're listening Hermione," Ron said, his voice raising, "because it seems like no one is listening. Harry. Is. Not. A. Girl! And Malfoy _knows_ that -- weren't you _listening_?"

"Well, it's too late _now_, isn't it?" Hermione replied matter-of-factly.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was desperately, madly, very near completely, but not _quite_, in love.

He had never intended to be so, but then he had never intended to walk directly in the path of his Uncle Levan's Doberman Pincher, which took five curses to the head before it would release him, and these things happen.

These things _happen_, Draco assured himself, and steered Harry towards the Quidditch match with a hand resting firmly on the small of Harry's soft, sloping back. It had been too late to look away, once Harry had peered up through tosselled bangs and parted twice bitten lips, and Draco had just always loved a woman whose eyes turned cold and chin tilted up. It reminded him of his mother.

"My father will have you killed," he informed Marcus Flint, who looked unwilling to relinquish his seat for the girl formerly known as The Boy Who Lived, despite the fact that it was only Ravenclaw playing Hufflepuff -- and very badly, he might add.

Marcus grimaced, but nodded, and slid down the bleachers to give Harry and Draco room.

"I believe you're supposed to blush now," Draco said, and let Goyle know that he would be killed as well, if he didn't place that toad very carefully down the back of his _own_ robes.

"Oh, okay," Harry said, and went about doing it.

* * *

Harry went about being a girlfriend in a very exact, professional manner.

He woke up one half hour before the rest of his dormitory, and marched straight into the bathroom. The center mirror had the best lighting, and he cleaned his teeth in front of it while he thought up something interesting to owl Draco before lunch. His hair received thirty-five brush strokes, he scrubbed his skin with Bobbles' Ever-Glow Face Cream, making small circles with the very tips of his fingers, and he typically decided on commenting that breakfast had been absolutely delicious. He wouldn't eat for another fifteen minutes, but it was rather a sure bet.

A small letter would be poked through the crack in the center most window, where the Malfoy owl stashed it sometime during the night. Draco owled before bed, and Harry checked it in the morning because it was nice to wake up to. Sometimes there would be a handful of Every Flavor Beans, ducked into a pocket of parchment, in toast, coffee, and peppermint, picked out from the package one by one through laborious tests upon Crabbe and Goyle.

"He'll _poison_ you," said Seamus, horrified, but Harry declared them quite tasty, and not at all life threatening.

It was just fine that no one wanted to share; he would have them all to himself. And the same went with his satin-backed hairbrush, Fair Weather Pocket Mirror, and large, rectangular picture that declared _Malfoy Rules_ in small, circular, every moving explosions above a depiction of the boy in question, astride a broom and in full Quidditch gear.

* * *

Draco walked with Harry to his first and second, but not third, class, pointing out how truly insipid the passing students were, in case Harry hasn't noticed. Harry typically hadn't.

"And _that_ one," Draco drawled, "Comes from a whole _line_ of Squibs. Mother says that they're not pure bloods at all, most likely. The first one was probably misclassified, and now it would be terribly embarrassing to go back and re-label them all."

Harry examined the boy very closely, and then dropped his eyes in a very nonchalant, okay-I'm-not-fooling-anyone manner when the boy's head snapped back in their direction.

"As I was **saying**," Draco continued icily, when the young man in question stopped to mutter something that sounded very similar to _'Your girlfriend's a fucking freak, Malfoy.'_

"Draco's father will have you killed," stated Harry, and then Draco was smiling and not saying anything at all.

* * *

"Don't you think," Ron ventured, torso stretched awkwardly across the library table, "that Harry has become sort of, er, _mean_?" 

Hermione batted his fingers away from the edge of her tightly rolled parchment and cupped a hand around the bottom lines protectively, as one could never tell with Ron if it was casual conversation or a stealth attack on homework solutions.

"His recent tendency towards bowing to peer pressure and sneering at the less fortunate?" she clarified, which earned her a cross and distinctly suspicious you-don't-actually-have-a-book-for-this-do-you, oh-Merlin-you-_do_-and-I-think-I-could-hate-you look.

"Ron, he's a teenager." Hermione sighed and leaned back on her chair to paw at bit at the bookshelf on her right. "Oh yes, _here_ it is. Acne, Anxiety, and Antacids: What Your Child Has Become And Why You Can't Perform An Exorcism.

"Of course," she continued speculatively, "I _ know_ they're trying to be witty, but _honestly_, every wizard knows that exorcisms are an-"

"But he's," Ron squirmed impatiently in his chair, as if he was in great need of the lavatory.

"Girls _our age_ are absolutely _vicious_ about boys," insisted Hermione.

"_Vicious_?" Ron peered with a measure of trepidation towards Lavender Brown as she made dainty flapping butterfly wings out of broken quills, beside the wide library windows, and then shook his head sharply. "But he's _not actually a girl_, Hermione."

"He's doing a terrific job adapting," she reminded him proudly. "Well, except for that dreadful habit of scratching at the front of his skirts."

* * *

Having discovered that sixty-two versions of Harry Potter Malfoy, each with slightly varied penmanship, could fit on a single role of parchment, Harry then repeated the procedure with Harry Malfoy Potter, promptly discarded the initial batch, and stowed the signatures under his pillow for safekeeping.

He began to have much nicer dreams, with beds of roses and butterfly kisses and making Snape cry when Griffendor beat out the Slytherins for the seventh year running, and so deemed the exercise an immense success. 

A judgment call that did not sit so well with his friends, who -- in a shockingly selfish manner -- refused to help him pick out the prettiest one that someday could be printed up on all of their wedding invitations.

"You don't _have_ to print them anyway," Hermione pointed out.

Neville nodded. "My grandmum spelled the invites to my great aunt's hundred and first birthday. Instant replicas."

"And, in case you've forgotten, your name Will. Never. Be. Harry _Malfoy_," Ron said loudly.

"Of course it won't," Harry said, looking quite surprised, and Ron let out a deep sigh of relief. "If I left off Potter, Snuffles would never forgive me."

* * *

Ron decided to demonstrate his maturity and perseverance by sulking for a fortnight. 

"_You_ didn't act this way about _Viktor_."

Hermione pursed her lips impatiently, as she always did when she was about to saying something that was completely obvious to everyone who was not named Ron Weasley . "He's not my boyfriend."

Ron snorted. "Could have fooled _me_."

"But then, that's not at _all _difficult to achieve, is it?" Draco observed, lounging against a nearby pillar, despite the fact that upright columns of stone and lying in a lazy, relaxed manner did not, initially, seem to be things that one would have a tendency to mix.

Ron threw up his hands. "How do you keep **doing** that?"

"It's a gift," Draco replied smoothly, and paused at its chilly reception. 

"Oh, all _right_. It's a form of locator spell. When you're making a _particularly_ large ass of yourself, it alerts me."

* * *

The only mystery remaining (though Ron fervently argued that, "_Everything_ is weird and wrong and you've all gone nutters") was the sharp incline in Harry's marks that inexplicably had occurred when he was working terribly hard at paying less attention to his courses than ever.

Snape seemed cut off at the tongue and given to long periods of inspection, standing haltingly at five paces away and eyeing Harry as one does an especially rare and repugnant specimen. His choice cutting remarks didn't seem to cast the same dour shadow over a sparkling brunette with a glowing disposition and delicate ankles, and it was the most unsettling thing, the way Potter kept making demure eyes over his shoulder and towards his favorite pupil.

Binn found Miss Potter a most refreshing joy to his classroom, and it was of Trelawney's opinion that her untimely death would be even _more _tragic, now that a blossoming young romance would also be irrevocably cut short, leaving the survivor to roam the earth stricken and alone until his last heartbroken day.

"And he would become so gaunt and his hair would loose that lovely shine," she added.

* * *

"Please tell me that you've not writing Harry Malfoy Potter into your foreshadowing journal," pleaded Ron.

Harry smiled sweetly. "I am not writing Harry Malfoy Potter into my foreshadowing journal."

"Oh, thank the--"

"I'm writing Harry plus Draco forever, but in the rather strange abbreviation that I spied Padma using in Magic Creatures," he said, "Would you like to see?" and tilted up the slightly smudged pages for inspection.

Ron would quite decidedly _not_ like to see, and he said as much.

"Harry," Ron said, pitching his voice low and calm and rational, "if you _were_ a sixteen year old girl, which you are _not_, you would **still** have no business writing cutesy little declarations with a pink inkwell and sparkles. Because, frankly, it's _stupid_.

Harry squinted up at him. "I have to admit, you may be onto something," he said, and promptly changed the ink to a rich shade of crimson.

* * *

"Do you ever wonder if they're raising a percentage of us like Mandrakes -- just waiting until we first sprout acne and then setting about chopping us into little pieces and giving us to Snape for potions?" Ron mused. 

Hermione blinked. "I would think that the obvious answer is _no_. Also, I'm going to pretend we never had this conversation."

* * *

Harry turned back into a boy on a Tuesday, which Ron discovered, rather accidentally, by bumping into Malfoy while they were kissing in the hall. Draco bit right into Harry's tongue, and Harry's yelp was not girlish at all, and Ron was, quite frankly, appalled.

"You're still _kissing_," he shrieked, and then clapped both hands over his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and then opened them very slowly.

"Well, no, not at the moment," Draco snapped. He dabbed lightly at the corner of Harry's mouth with a crisp white, neatly pressed and monogrammed handkerchief. "Funny how blunt trauma to the _mouth_ gets in the way of a snog."

"_Hermoine_," Ron said, appealing to her good sense and generous nature. "They're still _kissing_." 

"Yes," she said. "I can see that."

Harry's arms had returned to winding Draco's neck, and their mouths were open and shiny and causing Ron an inexplicable attack of the nerves.

His mother had nerves, and he had been known to unwittingly stand upon them, but he never imagined that he would own any. Ron had always been firm in his belief that this was a woman problem.

Ron's eyebrows were protesting vigorously. "But he's a _boy_." 

She remained nonplussed. "He's always been a boy."

"But, _Hermione_, and correct me if I'm wrong, and please try to remember, as no one seems to remember _anything_ or notice _a single damned thing_ anymore: Harry does not kiss boys."

"Ron," Hermione sighed, "Harry _does_ kiss boys."

"No," Ron insisted, "Certainly there are plenty of boys who kiss boys who happen to have the name Harry, and they might even kiss _Malfoy_, of all deplorable things, but _our_ Harry is not one of them." He rolled his eyes widely, and got in an accidental glance at the rapidly more and more entwined couple, and winced. "I think I'd know." 

"_Ron_," Hermione said.

"_Hermione_," Ron said right back.

"Ron," Hermione said, with remarkable with admirable aplomb and tranquility, "You know the time you burped up giant slugs for an afternoon, and you ate one, and you admitted that night, before bed, that it tasted sort of good, if salty; and the time you were afraid you could never grow enough hair on your testicles and you had me mix up that potion and that one paragraph was smudged and they turned all black and green and had to go to Dumbledore and he had to _look_ at them and we swore to never tell anyone, but then Malfoy slipped you a bit of truth serum before the term was out and you told all of Potions; and the time when Seamus finally managed rum, and you drank far, far too much of it, and you were moaning and clinging to the walls, and you looked up into my eyes and you told me that I was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, except on those days when I was sort of ugly, and you loved me on those days anyways, and on every day, and someday you would tell me proper, but you were just so scared?"

Ron gulped. 

"I listen," she said, and laid a soft hand over his cheek. 

"I notice," she said, and pressed a kiss to the other one. 

_and they all lived happily ever after, except for perhaps Snape.  
but that was undoubtedly for the best, as he would never wish to feel an emotion as frivolous and silly as that one._

end. 


End file.
